by C. R. May
Erik looked up. His father was tall even for a Norseman, but the conversation was going well, and he craned his neck as he risked a question of his own. ‘How did you know that we were about to come under attack?’
Harald snorted. ‘A king who does not know all that goes on, both within the bounds of his kingdom and beyond, rarely remains so; especially in such a kingdom as my own. By leaps and bounds, one short journey after another from one hall to the next, the news of Bolli’s death had passed over Upland to the Vestfold and the South in a matter of weeks. Thorir is not so wet behind the ears not to have sent a fast boat south the moment that the weather allowed either. Even as you slogged your way north, my hersir was preparing for the consequences of your actions.’
They had reached the strand, and the king’s boots scrunched on the shingle as he raised a hand in reply to the acclamation of the ship guard. High above the first stars were hardening as the sinking sun blushed the western skyline.
Suddenly the king’s features brightened, and a smile lit his face as he too recalled the past. ‘You have a touch of your mother about you,’ he said. Turning his face to his son, Erik felt a thrill course through his blood as he recognised the light of pride shining in his father’s eyes. ‘I have had a few wives,’ the king snorted, ‘and I daresay that I will have a few more before Oðin decides that it is time for me to take my place alongside our ancestors on the family bench. But Ragnhild was the best of them and probably always shall be.’ Harald looked again at his son, and Erik was surprised to see sadness there. ‘It was a hard time when she died. Do you recall anything of her?’
Erik confirmed that he didn’t. He had only been two years old when his mother had died, but he did recall snatches of the journey north. It was the first time that he had travelled on a longship, and the sights, sounds and smells of the sea had thrilled the boy even then.
‘I only had her with me for three years,’ Harald continued, ‘and you were our only bairn. A king has to have a consort and I married Snofrid soon after.’ The king glanced down at his son and blew out. ‘It’s the way of the Finns that their women don’t take too kindly to bringing up other women’s sons, especially if they are older than their own. They tend to be...’ Harald pursed his lips as his mind searched for the right way to explain the danger he had been in as a child, without making unsubstantiated allegations. Finally he had it, and Erik nodded that he understood why he had been packed of to distant Fjordane with such haste. ‘They tend to be, less protective,’ the king said. ‘Accidents can happen: ships sink; young lads stray in front of bowmen while hunting, that kind of thing.’ King Harald changed tack as the conversation threatened to stray from the path he had intended. ‘Did you know that Guttorm is dead, and you are now my eldest son?’
Erik confirmed that he did. ‘My brother was killed fighting Solvi the Splitter, down on the Gota River. I will kill him for it father,’ Erik said earnestly.
Harald nodded. ‘Thorir has done his work well, as I knew he would. It is time to reward my own foster-brother’s loyalty, and for you to move on to the next part of your life.’
They had reached the place where the big drekkar was moored, and the pair ran their eyes across its sleek lines as the king’s guard hovered at a respectful distance. Erik had never seen such a fine ship, and he marvelled at the workmanship as the pair stood in silence. He counted up the oar ports and gasped. Thirty a side meant that with a double crew the warship could bring over a hundred warriors to the place of battle: an army. The prow curled above them, its timber a frieze of serpentine carvings, and although the beast head had been removed lest it frighten the spirits on a friendly shore it seemed clear to Erik that it could only be a dragon.
‘It was meant as a gift to your mother’s father, the man who you were named for, King Erik down in Jutland.’ The king shot his son a wink. ‘He is a man I want to keep on good terms with. Not only does he keep the other kings down there busy and away from the Vikken with his constant warring, it seems that the gods intend to keep him in a good supply of daughters. As I seem to produce only sons, we make a good match. The ship will have to go to Sigurd Jarl now,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Along with a chest of gold and silver.’ King Harald clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘It is a price worth paying. You cannot make a kingdom without cracking a few heads, but Sigurd fears my power and the way that you took care of his son tells me that you too have the making of a king of Norway Erik. Take yourself off now, back to Thorir’s hall and say your farewells. Your time as a prince at foster is over; tomorrow you become a sea king.’
‘Where is it?’
Kolbein Herjolfsson leaned in and pointed. ‘You see that arm of rock? The one wearing a crown of cormorants?’
Erik narrowed his eyes, sighting down the man’s outstretched limb. A small arm of rock came off the skerry, thrusting through the surging waves like a line of rotting teeth. ‘Yes, I see it.’
‘Well, there is a small channel which runs between the islands there. It’s a tight fit, but it will save us half a day’s sailing at this time of year if we don’t have to go the long way.’
Erik turned back and regarded his little fleet with pride as they followed on in line astern. In addition to his own ship Isbjorn, Ice Bear, four snekkjur breasted the swell, Bison, Okse, Reindyr and Fjord-Ulf. With each ship carrying twenty rowers a side plus the styrisman and other leaders, Erik commanded a force of over two hundred battle hardened fighting men with which to amass treasure and reputation in the softer lands to the south. After years of drift as he learned the ways of a warrior under the tutelage of two of the best, the boy had suddenly become a man.
A herring gull’s piercing cry cut the air, and Erik watched the grey backed bird riding the air current mere feet to starboard as it regarded him with a flaxen eye. Kolbein was heaving the steering oar to his chest as he guided the Isbjorn towards the turn, and Erik’s mind wandered as the styrisman called instructions to the crewmen working the sheets. It had been two days now since Sigurd Jarl’s fleet had appeared in Sunnfjord, and although the presence of the king and his war fleet had meant that Bolli’s father had had no option but to accept the compensation offered for the life of his son, they all knew that it was prudent to put as many miles between themselves and the Trondelag as quickly as they could. The hatred he had witnessed in the jarl’s eyes as he had been forced to watch Erik lead the ships down towards the open sea had been obvious, and he recalled his father’s words of advice as they parted that day with a shiver: “use the remaining years which the gods grant me to become the hardest man you can Erik. You have made a powerful enemy for life, I cannot protect you from beyond the grave.”
The bows began their swing to starboard, and Erik came back from his thoughts. The teeth were petering out to reveal the mouth itself, whitecaps dotting the narrow channel as the conflicting currents thrashed and boiled. Kolbein saw the look on Erik’s face as the swirling waters of the channel were obscured by the upsweep of the prow, and he gave a chuckle of amusement. ‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘One day I will take you through the Moskstraumen, a great tidal eddy up in the Lofotens. Some people say that Ægir himself has his hall beneath the spot, and he sucks down seafarers who lack the skill to cross it. Here,’ he said, releasing the tiller and skipping down from the steering platform, ‘you take us through, and I will guide you from the bows.’
Erik’s jaw dropped as Kolbein continued for’ard, his arm shooting out as he issued his orders to the crew. As he grabbed the tiller and steadied the ship the sail was already being brailed, and the way came off the ship as oars slid proud of the hull. The sail was sheeted home, and it quickly became obvious why they were to shoot the gap under oar power alone. Erik rolled on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting from side to side as he tried to take in as much of the view ahead before the prow blotted it out completely. Kolbein was in the bows, his cloak billowing like a cloud as the wind snatched it up and threw it way to the North, and Erik blinked the windblown spray from
his eyes as he attempted to watch for the sign. As the dark outline of the skerry rose up on the starboard side, Kolbein’s right arm stabbed out. In an instant Erik had the tiller to his chest, his gaze pinning the man in the bows as the rowers drove her forward. Erik felt the long, sleek hull of the Isbjorn give a shudder as the currents threatened to spin her on her keel, but the youth gritted his teeth, braced his feet against the wale and held on tight. A heartbeat later Kolbein was waving to larboard, and Erik pushed the big steering oar away as the ship pivoted on its axis. As the prow came about, sunlight was snuffed out as the ship entered the channel; dark rock towered to either side as Erik fixed the man in the bows with his gaze, but his heart leapt with pride and relief as he turned and flashed him a grin. Erik’s belly gave a lurch as the undertow picked up the little hull and funnelled her through, but he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he saw the crewmen exchange nods and smiles at his helmsmanship.
Kolbein was walking the deck as oars were shipped and the sail lowered halfway down the mast, and he shot Erik a wink as he came alongside him. ‘Now the boys know that you are not just a passenger.’
The waterway beyond the islands was broad and calm, all the choppiness of the open ocean left beyond, and the pair turned back to watch as the other ships made the channel. Reindyr shot the gap in a welter of spray quickly followed by Okse, and as men whooped and called in their excitement the little flotilla began to gather in the lee of the skerry. Soon the tall prows of the Fjord-Ulf and Bison emerged from the shadows, and Kolbein shielded his eyes as he raised his chin to the sky. The sun still lit the crest of the island off to larboard, but the smaller island to the West was little more than a dark outline; the day was all but spent, it was time that they searched out a good landing place in which to spend the night. Kolbein raised his arm as he indicated a sheltered cove a mile or so ahead. ‘That’s a good place to rest up,’ he said. ‘There is enough room to beach all five ships, and the hill there will shelter us from the westerlies. The prevailing current thereabouts tends to fetch driftwood up on the shore too, so we should have the fires roaring before it gets too dark.’
The wind was fitful in the lee of the island, but up ahead another patch of choppy water showed where the sea poured through a narrower gap in the land. They would have to row if they were to make a landfall beyond it, and Erik ordered the sail brailed up as the other ships laboured to come back into line astern. Erik was overjoyed to see that the crew were turning their faces to him as they awaited the order to run out the oars, and he glimpsed the satisfaction on the face of Kolbein that his ploy had worked. Everyman aboard knew that there had been a dozen ways in which disaster could have overtaken the longship as it shot the narrow channel, but Erik’s helmsmanship had carried them through and they had seen for themselves that he was more than the pampered son of a king. He called the command, the blades slid proud of the hull, and the eyes of thirty-two oarsmen fixed upon him as they curled their backs and tensed.
A flash of grey caught his eye, and Erik snorted as he saw that the gull had returned, riding the air current to starboard as it too seemed to await his command. Despite the delay the faces of the men were intent, fixing him with their stares like faithful hounds, and he felt the thrill of the moment as he gave them the order to get underway for the very first time.
‘On my mark…’
He raised his boot, paused for a heartbeat, and brought it down onto the boards with a crash.
‘Row!’
A grunt came from the men as the oars bit the waves and the Isbjorn began to creep forward. Soon the ship was gathering speed, the prow rising and falling as it reached the land breach and breasted the swell, seawater hissing as it sluiced alongside. The gull had taken its leave, finally content that this boy could handle a snekkja as well as any weather-beaten mariner, and Erik laughed as the spray necklaced the prow and he saw that the other ships were making a race of it. ‘Come on lads,’ he called as prow beasts ranged outboard. ‘The Isbjorn leads, others follow!’
Kolbein was alongside him, and Erik concentrated on holding his course as the styrisman beat time with his foot. Before him backs straightened and curled again as the rowers redoubled their efforts, and Erik shared a look of triumph with the huskarl as the ship began to draw ahead. The sheltered waters of the cove were drawing closer with each stroke of the oar, and as the ship pulled ahead once again Erik looked about his little fleet with pride. The ships were leaping the waves, seawater streaming from their flanks in silvered rills before they buried their heads in the next wave in a mantle of spray, and his eyes shone with excitement as an image came into his mind. He had been out in the faering working on his ship craft, manning two of the four oars which had lent the little rowboat its name with Arinbjorn two summers past. His foster-brother had been working the rudder when his expression had come alive as he pointed out a pod of morder-hval crossing the wide bay of Stavfjord. The murder-whales were hunting, chasing down a shoal as they harvested the deep; black and white flanks streaming beneath a cloud of spray as they broke the surface and drove their prey before them.
The bay was coming up off the starboard wale and Erik tugged the tiller to his chest as the memory faded, the prow sweeping around as he aimed for the shore. Hummocky dunes led back to a ridge of grey rock, its dips and gullies hazed with green where grasses and sea thrift sheltered from the worst of the weather.
Kolbein was back in the bow, guiding him in with a sweep of his arms, and the smiles of the crewmen mirrored his own as the keel grated on sand. As men tumbled into the surf, wading ashore with tents, barrels and cooking pots, Erik secured the steering oar and followed on.
7
THE SOUTH WAY
Erik cursed under his breath as he stumbled again. This far from the fireside the night was a dark as the pitch they used to caulk the ships, and he paused for a moment, lifting his head to gain his bearings. Despite the blackness the ridge top stood out as a jagged line against the lighter clouds beyond; he was almost at the summit, and he suppressed the desire to call out for directions with difficulty. Despite the fact that the chances of an enemy finding their lair was remote Thorir and Arinbjorn had taught him well, and he smiled to himself as the memory of one of the big hersir’s no-nonsense sayings came to mind: only a milkmaid or a thrall worries about trolls and night-gangers, so keep your mouth shut and trust to your instincts.
He ran his eyes along the summit as he couched his spear, hooking the small bag back onto his shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time on the short trip. Finally the point of rock hardened from the gloom; it was little more than fifty paces to the right of him, and Erik set off again across the slippery rock face. He was soon there, and he returned the smile of the guards as he slipped down beside them: ‘food for hungry men, lads!’
Erik handed the hot parcels across to the grateful men and reached back into the knapsack. ‘And a ewer of ale to keep your spirits up.’
Erik snorted as he saw the whites of the men’s eyes widen, despite the all-enveloping darkness. ‘Thank you, lord,’ the lookout replied through a mouthful of food, ‘that will go down nicely.’
Erik switched his gaze out to sea as the men munched contentedly at his side. The cloud cover was total with not a glimpse of the moon or a star to cast its light on Midgard, but the sea was as calm as a mountain lake, all the choppiness of earlier forgotten. Despite the inky darkness, any ship brave or foolhardy enough to risk the skerries on a moonless night would leave an obvious wake.
‘It’s just a taste,’ he replied. ‘On a night like this, I thought that you could use a little cheer.’ The smell of the hot bacon was tantalising, and Erik nodded towards it as another mouthful disappeared into Kjartan’s mouth. ‘Does it taste as good as it smells?’
The men looked horrified as they realised for the first time that Erik had not yet eaten. He held up a hand and chuckled as they both offered up their half chewed remnants. ‘It is fine, I have my own waiting for me when I get back. I will ha
ve a sip of that though,’ he added with a smile. ‘It’s thirsty work trying to find a way up here in the dark!’
Erik sank a mouthful as his eyes followed the coastline. The islands trailed away to the North, dark stones set into a green sea, each skerry ringed by a halo of white as the waves lapped the shore. Thorir had always drummed into him that a lord led by example, and despite his own hunger Erik knew that his small sacrifice would not be lost on the men before him. Before the ships could be shouldered back into the surf in the morning, the story would have swept the ranks. The king’s son put their own welfare above his own; he was one of them, a lord worthy of their loyalty and respect. Erik took another mouthful of the ale as the sentinels finished off their meal, and was pleased to see that their eyes never left the straits and channels below them for more than a moment, despite the distraction of his presence.
The silence was broken as a growl came from his empty belly, and the trio shared a laugh. ‘It is best that you take yourself off lord,’ Kjartan said with a smile. ‘A half starved sea king will be no use to anyone!’
Erik nodded and stood to go. As he did so he saw the anxiety on the faces of the watchmen as their eyes dropped to his side and they realised that he was still holding the ewer of ale. Slinging the leather bag onto his shoulder, Erik make a great show of slowly upending the container as he drank the contents. Looking back, he stifled a smile as the guards struggled to hide their disappointment. He slapped his lips as he popped the bottle back into the sack. ‘That was good ale,’ he said as he rummaged inside the sack. ‘It’s as well for you that I brought two.’
The wind had risen as they talked, and the high prows and wide bellies of the ships flickered in the reflected firelight from the strand. Kolbein was speaking, and Erik listened in as the other ship’s styrismen added their own thoughts and advice. ‘So, what do we think? Gotland? Visby is always full of shipping.’